This is a promise with a catch
by iridescentglow
Summary: With Brandon and Callie living under the same roof again, it's only a matter of time before they give in to temptation. (Complete.)
1. Chapter 1

_**Notes:**_

_For the sake of all of our sanities, I've basically ignored everything that happened to Brandon in the s1 finale, apart from the fact that he moved back home._

_Title from Daniel Johnston's 'True love will find you in the end'._

_Thank you to mirbells for beta-reading._

* * *

Callie was used to gutting it out through bad feelings. She was used to _enduring_.

She just wasn't used to _enduring_ while sitting in a beautiful kitchen lit by morning sunshine and filled with the smell of fresh pancakes. She fidgeted in her seat. She scraped her fork across her plate. She sneaked a glance across the table. And, from the boy who sat there, she found only lowered lashes, a furrowed brow, a closed expression.

She kicked one bare foot experimentally and her toes brushed his ankle. The two of them froze like that for a moment; the tiniest skin-to-skin contact and she felt fused to him, helplessly. Then he moved his leg and the moment reset.

She looked down at her plate and lifted a forkful of pancakes to her mouth, chewing without tasting. She watched his hand as it picked up the syrup bottle. She watched as a single rivulet of syrup dripped down his hand, catching in the V between his index and middle fingers. He replaced the bottle and laid a syrup-sweet hand on the table.

It was impossible for Callie to eat pancakes seated opposite Brandon and not think of the apartment that never was – the love seat that never was; the kitchen table that never was; the life that never was.

She looked down at his hand on the table, just inches from her own. It made her lightheaded – the feeling of _wanting_.

Callie was used to gutting it out. She was used to enduring.

But all she wanted to do was reach over, lift his hand, and press his syrup-sweet fingers to her lips.

* * *

"I mean, I miss him, obviously. But I don't _miss him_ miss him. It's, like… it's fine. I'm not gonna be one of those girls. Cry all the time. Throw myself off a cliff. It's fine. I can miss him and still be fine."

In their bedroom, Callie listened silently as Mariana rambled on about Zac.

"Moms said I can go to Arizona in the summer," Mariana continued, unconvincing in each cheerful word. "And that's only a couple months away. That's nothing. This whole thing will just be a cute story we tell our kids one day."

Mariana gave a forced laugh and then launched into a long monologue about baby names ("I really like Regano for a boy, and maybe, like, Lilabeth for a girl").

Callie, who was not really needed in this conversation, let her thoughts overtake her. She wondered absently if she was just as unconvincing as Mariana.

When Lena cautiously asked how Callie was finding it now that Brandon was back at home, did her lie – "It's fine, it's good that everything's back to normal" – ring just as false as Mariana's airy claims about not missing Zac?

* * *

Since Brandon's return to the house, he and Callie had become scrupulous about avoiding one another. As if acting according to unspoken rules, they'd established routines that minimized any time spent alone together.

Morning was the most fraught time. The hazard level was high. There was always the possibility of bumping into each other on the way to and from the bathroom, half-dressed and half-awake. There was potential for bedroom doors to be left cracked open as they changed. And Callie was acutely aware of the sleepy longing that rose from her like steam as she and Brandon sat jammed together at the breakfast table. For this reason, morning routines needed to be rigid.

Brandon was an early riser and he often grabbed breakfast to go, blaming piano practice or homework. He left for school early, in his own car, occasionally taking Jude or Jesus if they were ready in time. Callie was, by design, never ready in time. Though she was often the first to shower in the morning, she purposely dragged her feet. Sometimes she was ready even later than Mariana (a true feat). Invariably, she rode with Lena and the others to school.

Routines made her life easier. But not every moment could be scheduled.

Inevitably, each day was filled with a hundred _almosts_. The brush of skin against skin as he handed her a plate at dinner. The way his body twisted (away from her, toward her) as they passed on the stairs. The way his hand found the small of her back, automatically, as the family jostled into the living room for movie night.

Every moment could have been a precursor to a kiss. Every moment was an _almost_.

Worst of all were the moments when all the best laid plans fell away and they ended up alone together after all. She'd wander into an empty room and realize it wasn't empty at all. Brandon was pouring juice in the kitchen. Brandon was reading his History textbook in the living room. Brandon was listening to music through earphones on the porch. And they were alone. Together.

Every time, a sudden heat rushed to fill the room. Callie felt it prickle at her skin, color rising up her neck. The heat was a reminder. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how rigid her schedules, her feelings for Brandon remained rooted inside of her.

Every time, her resolve wavered. And, every time, Brandon got up and walked out of the room.

Three weeks had passed since Brandon had come home.

Three weeks has passed and Brandon had been nothing but congenial. He asked how she was finding Algebra. He offered to let her borrow his computer for an assignment. He passed her the syrup on days when family breakfast couldn't be avoided.

And he never once looked her in the eye for more than a second.

* * *

It was three a.m. when Callie climbed out of bed. Somewhere in the darkest reaches of her mind, it was always three a.m. – and, when the clock ticked around to three a.m. each night, her mind liked to remind her of that fact.

In bare feet, she padded out of her room, past a sleeping Mariana. Her footsteps made only the slightest shuffle-and-squeak as she walked downstairs. The house slept on.

Downstairs, in the dark living room, she took a seat on the couch and thought back to when it had been her bed. Not even _her_ bed. _A_ bed. A temporary stop before life catapulted her onward.

Back then, her feelings for Brandon had been wisps in the back of her mind. A possibility, but one that was easily ignored. Now her feelings for Brandon had thickened to a fog. It clouded her mind.

It was a terrible thing to wish away her current happiness. To wish away her new family, her new life, the bed of very her own that waited for her upstairs. But part of her wished she could go back – to a time when this couch was her bed; to a time when she'd genuinely believed she didn't need anyone but Jude.

Callie curled up on the couch-bed and wrapped herself in a blanket. The blanket smelled of Lena's lilac-scented perfume and Stef's drugstore hand lotion. She rubbed the scratchy-soft wool against her skin.

And, as she began to cry, she watched the tears catch on the fibres, like raindrops on a spider web. She needed to cry at night so that she could breathe during the day. That was the simple fact of it.

Lately, though, her lungs still felt heavy and fit-to-burst, no matter how much she cried.

She didn't hear Brandon's approach until he spoke.

"Sorry… I came down for some water," he said, his form a shadow in the doorway.

She sat up, straight-backed all of a sudden, and wiped away her tears quickly.

"Oh hey… I was just… you know, Mariana kinda snores when she gets her allergies, so sometimes I… sleep down here. But don't tell her I told you," Callie gabbled.

Brandon was silent, still shrouded in darkness. She heard him release a long breath. Then he turned to leave.

Callie felt her relief mingle with disappointment as she watched his retreating back.

Then, just as suddenly, he turned around and walked back into the living room.

"I didn't come down for water," he said in a rush. "I came down to check on you."

The glow of the streetlight filtered in through the half-drawn blinds of the living room windows. A slice of muddy yellow light hit Brandon across the face, but his eyes remained wells of darkness. Unreadable.

"So are you," he said, "okay."

"Yeah," Callie said. Barely able to mouth the word, she forced herself to speak the next two aloud: "I'm okay."

She listened as Brandon let out another sighing breath.

"…How about that's bullshit?" he said at last, shaking his head. "I can pretend, Callie. I can pretend everything's normal. I can pretend I don't miss you. But I can't pretend I don't know you're crying."

Callie felt her throat constrict, new tears forming in her eyes. Furious at herself, she wiped them away. She tried to find her voice, find the lies to tell him he was wrong – she was _fine_ – but her voice was gone and Brandon was still talking.

"I can't pretend I don't know about this whole routine of yours," Brandon said. "Three a.m., every morning, you come downstairs. You sit on the couch and you cry. Not for long. That's the whole point, I guess. You need to give yourself time for your face to go back to normal.

"So I guess maybe you cry from three till four. Very regimented of you." Brandon let out a single breath of sad laughter. "And I guess then you sit and you stare at the walls and you wait for morning. I never hear you crying after four, but you're also never in your bed.

"You're always the first one in the shower in the morning, but always the last one ready for school. I bet you think I didn't notice that."

Brandon took a few cautious steps toward her. He hesitated a moment longer and then took a seat on the couch. Now he was close enough for her to see his expression; close enough to see the sadness that pooled in his eyes.

"Callie… is it because of me? Are you crying every night because I moved back?"

She shook her head. She looked down, searching for the right words and finding only approximations.

"No, it's… it's hard to explain," she said at last. She sucked in a deep breath, but the air only seemed to skate the top of her lungs.

"You know Cole?" she said haltingly. "My friend, Cole. He finally found a new foster place. It lasted two days. I don't know what happened, but he's back in a group home again. And Daphne found out it could be another year before she can get her daughter back. She just lost her job and she's… slipping. I can see this darkness creeping back into her life. This _sadness_.

"And me… I'm… here. And I have _everything_. I feel guilty. And I'm scared. I'm still so scared. That the bad luck will catch up to me. The darkness will catch up." She could feel the tears threatening to overwhelm her voice. "It was a lot easier," she choked out, "when I had nothing. Because I didn't have anything to lose."

The tears came thick and fast now, dripping off the end of her nose, obscuring her vision. She couldn't see Brandon as he placed his hands on her shoulders; she could only feel him, drawing her close, wrapping her up in his embrace. He felt solid and warm. And, as he hugged her tight, she felt the heaviness in her lungs begin to dissipate.

She cried for a long time and Brandon didn't say anything. He didn't _shhh_ her or whisper platitudes. He just held her – his breath steady, the rise and fall of his chest comforting. And, finally, after her tears ran dry, she felt like she could breathe again.

Sleep pulled her in slowly. For the first time in a long time, she slept soundly and peacefully. Brandon must have let her go at some point, but she wasn't aware of when it happened. She went to sleep locked in his arms, but woke up alone on the couch, the perfumed, scratchy-soft blanket tucked around her.

She wondered briefly if he'd watched her as she slept, if he'd pressed a kiss to her sleeping forehead or cheek or shoulder. She pushed the thoughts away and went upstairs to shower.

* * *

"Well, good morning, sunshine," Stef said to Brandon, heaping pancakes onto his plate. "Running late this morning? You're usually out the door."

Brandon lifted his shoulders in a shrug, his mouth already full of pancakes.

"Callie… pancakes…?"

Callie took two of the pancakes that Stef offered and then reached for the syrup. Brandon went for the syrup at the same time. His hand covered hers for a moment too long before he drew back.

As Callie poured syrup over her pancakes, the syrup dripped down her hand, catching in the V between her index and middle fingers. She lifted her hand to her mouth and licked off the syrup sweetness.

She looked across the table at Brandon, who was watching her. Their eyes met and, for the first time in three weeks, he didn't look away.

* * *

_**Next chapter:**_

_Brandon teaches Callie to play piano. Also… kissing._


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm just trying to be good. If I'm good, maybe they'll keep us."

Callie had a memory of Jude. A nine-year-old Jude, tripping over an electric cord, trying to handle a vacuum cleaner that was almost the same size as him. In her memory, Jude looked at her with baleful eyes and reminded her to be good, too.

Just be good. That had always been Jude's attitude. Always be good. The good son. Never shout. Never complain. Never step out of line.

It had rankled with her when they were younger, but now she got it. Be good, be good, be good. The words hummed permanently in the forefront of her mind now. Be the good daughter.

* * *

On her way to the cafeteria at lunch, Callie passed the music room. The empty room seemed to beckon her inside. It had been her first sanctuary in this town, after all.

She moved to the windows, pushing them wide open and leaning out far enough that it gave her a headrush. She stayed like that for a long moment, drinking in the day. Then she ducked inside and sat down at one of the keyboards. She played notes at random and thought of the graceful lines of Brandon's fingers as he played.

As if beckoned by her thoughts, Brandon appeared.

"…Hey," he said from the doorway, sounding uncertain.

"Hey," Callie said, twisting to look at him from her seat at the keyboard.

"How are you feeling?" Brandon asked carefully.

"Fine," she lied automatically. Then she took a deep breath and strove for the truth. "I mean, I actually got a good night's sleep last night." Her voice dropped. "Someone… took care of me."

She expected him to say something jovial: a hearty _No problem!_ or a wincing _What are brothers for?_

Instead he said, "You'll always have someone to take care of you, Callie," intensity laced into every word.

She cut her eyes away from him and turned back to the keyboard. Brandon busied himself, too, looking for sheet music in the cupboard.

"Hey, you wanna play something?" he asked at last, and here was the joviality, the let's-be-friends attitude they were supposed to be adopting.

"I left my guitar at home," she said, thinking _our guitar_.

"I meant on the piano."

She squinted, scrunching her face into an uncertain smile. "Oh… kay?"

Brandon laughed. "I'm not the Grim Reaper, don't worry."

Callie laughed, too, and the laughter was a relief. She could be the good daughter and be friends with Brandon and perhaps even play the piano. She could do that.

Brandon rummaged through the cupboard and found a book of sheet music that met with his satisfaction. He passed the rows of keyboards and marched over to the dusty upright piano in the corner of the music room. He took a seat at the piano bench and angled his head at her, waiting.

"What's wrong with the keyboard?" Callie asked.

"You can't have your first lesson on a keyboard. Come on."

"I didn't know there were rules."

"There is exactly one rule. You have to have your first piano lesson on a piano."

"Okay… but you've gotta admit the first rule of fight club is a lot catchier," Callie said and Brandon grinned.

Callie got up from the keyboard and moved to where Brandon sat at the piano. She hesitated a moment and then sat down beside him on the piano bench, leaving a six-inch gap between the two of them.

"Ready?" he asked and she shrugged.

Carefully, Brandon used his left hand to play four notes. Then he looked at her expectantly.

"Think you can handle that?"

"…Do I think I can handle piano for babies?" she asked. "Yes, I think so."

They both laughed and, miming extreme concentration, Callie played the same four notes as Brandon.

"Great job," he said, still laughing.

"I'm the kid with the triangle. You've made me the kid with the triangle in the school orchestra who's not allowed a real instrument."

"Oh, okay, you're adventurous," Brandon said, flexing his fingers.

He studied the sheet music for a moment and then began to play, fingers skimming gracefully across the keys, feet effortlessly moving the pedals at the floor. Then he stopped playing and looked at her.

"Whadaya say, triangle girl?"

Callie huffed out a big breath, torn between admitting defeat and forging on. She didn't want to admit defeat.

"Play it again," she said.

She glanced at the sheet music, but she'd never learned more than the basics. To her, music wasn't marks on a page. It was sweated out; caught in the joints of the fingers and the grooves of the hands. As Brandon played the piece again, she watched his hands intently, memorizing their movements.

She made him play it a couple more times before she was ready to give it a try. He shifted aside to give her room. She took a deep breath, readied her fingers on the keys and her feet on the foot pedals, and began to play. Her movements were far more awkward than his, hitting the keys too hard, but she kept her rhythm and found every note, only messing up at the very end.

"Impressive!" he said.

She heard the genuine note of admiration in his voice. She bit her lip, hiding a smile.

For the next few minutes, they went back and forth, with him demonstrating and giving pointers, and her trying to put his instruction into practice. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get the end of the piece exactly right.

"It's the feet that are messing me up," she said, irritated.

"Okay," he said. "I'll be your feet."

Over the course of the lesson, they'd shifted around so much on the piano bench that the six-inch gap between them had been erased. Now Brandon eased even closer, positioning his feet over the pedals, while her upper body remained positioned over the keys.

It made them an awkward tangle of limbs and Callie found warmth rising at her neck. He leaned back, one hand gripping the edge of the piano bench, the heel of his hand pressing against her hip. She ignored the awkwardness of their proximity and began to play – her fingers on the keys, his feet on the pedals. The melody of the piece filled up the music room and, for the first time, she made no mistakes.

"Perfect," he said, as her hands stilled against the keys.

"Perfect when you're my feet," she said sardonically.

"So maybe I'll always be your feet."

A moment after he said it, he laughed as if it were a joke, but it was too late: she'd heard the longing in his voice. He was still so close, their limbs entangled, his breath warm on the side of her neck.

She forced herself to laugh, too, but she felt the heat that lay heavy in the moment.

* * *

Their piano lessons continued all week and Callie knew it was a bad idea. Avoiding each other was a better plan. But the simple fact was: she missed him.

She missed his friendship. It was different to Wyatt's goofy irreverence. Wyatt made her want to cut class and wander the boardwalk. Brandon made her want to play Rachmaninoff and catch melodies in the joints of her fingers.

Brandon's seriousness rubbed off on her; his intensity made her feel that all things were possible; it made her feel that life wasn't just there to be shrugged off. And yet he could also make her laugh. Moments of humor rose to the surface in every conversation they shared – moments that were lovelier for being unexpected.

Friends, friends, friends. That's what they were. So why had she been dreading the moment when Mariana finally noticed her absence?

"Hey, where were you at lunch?" Mariana asked.

"Library," Callie lied, before she remembered that she was supposed to be the good daughter. She began to backpedal. "I had to get a book. Then I went to the music room for a while." She forced herself to pause, delivering the words casually. So casually. "Brandon's teaching me some piano."

"Oh my god, Brandon taught me to play _Für Elise_ for a talent show once and it was basically the worst experience of my entire life," Mariana said.

Callie was glad of the excuse to laugh, to change the subject and ask about Mariana's talent show. But she was wrong if she thought that was the end of it.

* * *

"So I hear you want to learn piano?" Stef asked her that evening.

The two of them were in the living room – Callie doing homework; Stef folding laundry.

_Wow_, Callie thought. _Word travels fast._

"Um. I don't know. Maybe," she said, without looking up. She made a show of turning the page in her Algebra textbook.

"We'll get you some lessons," said Stef.

"Oh no, it'll be too expensive."

"So you'll pay us back when you're a world-famous concert pianist."

There was a creak of floorboards as Brandon crossed the hallway, past the living room. Stef called out:

"Hey B, pianists make the big bucks, right?"

"Oh sure," Brandon said, slowing to a halt, "pay grade's right up there with doctors and lawyers. They definitely don't end up playing in hotel lobbies and living in their moms' basement when they're thirty."

He raised his eyebrows sardonically and Stef smiled back at him with narrowed eyes.

"We don't have a basement, so it's all good," she said wryly and then turned back to Callie. "We'll set you up with some lessons, love."

"Piano lessons?" Brandon said. "I can teach her."

"Don't be silly. She needs lessons."

Stef finished folding the last piece of clothing – a swift, no-nonsense, 1-2-3 motion – and then picked up the laundry basket. She stood up and walked out of the room, pausing to give first Callie and then Brandon a peck on the forehead.

"I know from Mama that you have a paper due tomorrow," Stef said to Brandon as she lightly rubbed away her kiss. "So get to it."

Brandon hesitated a moment, his eyes skittering over to Callie briefly, and then he turned and headed up the stairs after his mom. Callie stared after them, wondering if it was an overreaction to feel like she'd been kicked in the stomach.

With one brisk, kindly conversation, Stef had sliced through all the pretence. She'd made this much obvious: even as friends, Callie wasn't allowed to spend time with Brandon. She couldn't sit in the sunlit music room with Brandon and still be the good daughter. The two were mutually exclusive concepts.

Stef and Lena had never explicitly told her she had to give up Brandon's friendship in order to be their daughter, but it seemed increasingly clear that they would never trust the two of them to be alone together. Callie had believed herself superstitious to think that spending time with Brandon would lead inevitably back into romance. Yet Stef and Lena seemed to suspect the inevitability of it, too. They loved her – she believed that now, she really did – but they'd still never trust her.

No matter how hard she tried, she'd never really be their good daughter.

* * *

Callie stared blankly at her Algebra textbook for another half hour, without taking in a single thing on the page. Family life swirled around her – Jesus, Jude and Mariana all wandered the living room, caught up in their own dramas – but she found she could barely react. Finally, she cast her textbook aside and went outside.

To climb a tree.

It was a tree she'd photographed. A tree that had haunted her nightmares for a time. A tree that had been strung with lights for Stef and Lena's wedding. But it was not a tree she'd climbed before today.

She wore a pair of Mariana's ballet flats, instead of her own worn-out sneakers, and her feet struggled to grip the bark. When she reached the first layer of branches, she kicked them off and let them fall to the ground, Cinderella's glass slippers clattering back to earth. With bare feet now, she climbed from branch to branch, memories of how to climb returning to her rapidly.

She climbed as high as it was possible to climb – high enough that she was almost level with the bedroom she shared with Mariana. But, up here, in late springtime, the cover of leaves was thick enough that she was rendered invisible. A person would have to stand at the tree trunk's base and look up to find her. It gave the illusion that she could hide here, perhaps forever.

But she didn't want to hide alone.

She slipped her phone from her pocket and dashed out a message.

_I'm in the tree._

The day's light was dwindling, the sun's rays taking on a thick, heavy quality as they filtered between the leaves. She settled into a cradle created by a pair of intersecting tree branches and closed her eyes as she waited.

"I thought maybe it was a… metaphor. Or some kind of… reference to achieving a higher state of consciousness. Like maybe Timothy has finally rubbed off on you. And you're going to start quoting Camus at dinner."

Callie opened her eyes at the sound of his voice. Prince Charming down below, squinting and smiling up at her like she was a crazy person.

"Nope," she said. "I'm in the tree."

"I see that," Brandon said with a laugh. "You know Jesus fell out of this tree the week after we moved into this house? Broke his ankle."

"So I guess I won't fall."

"Great plan. Fool-proof. Listen… I feel kinda stupid talking to a tree."

"So come up."

Brandon raised his eyebrows, as if to say, _challenge: accepted_.

He grasped the lowest tree branch and attempted to pull himself up. Even in sneakers, he struggled. Fingers that were so graceful on piano keys swiped bluntly at branches. He climbed slowly, with many false starts and more than a couple of slips. Finally, he reached the topmost cradle, where Callie sat.

"So I guess… you can see," he said, short of breath. "Not much of a tree climber. My dad tried to teach me baseball… and fishing… and climbing. And it turned out… I was really good at piano."

His self-deprecating laugh made her smile. There wasn't really room for them both in the tree. Brandon's legs were bunched up beneath him. He gripped the tree with both hands, too tight, nervous. By contrast, she was the most calm she'd felt in weeks. Her leg was looped around a branch, and she let the tree hold her up. Keep her safe.

"You have to want to hide," she said, "to be good at climbing trees.

"When I was… nine, maybe, we lived in this one house." One in a long line of rentals they'd eventually been evicted from. "It was a dump. Hot as hell in summer. Middle of nowhere. But it was right next to this piece of scrub land. There were trees. Just a few. Survival of the fittest type trees. You know. Trees that would survive the apocalypse.

"When we lived in that house, my mom and dad fought a lot. A _lot._ Whenever they'd start yelling, we'd run outside, me and Jude. Climb those trees. I always climbed as high as I could. Jude would get scared, stay on the low branches. But me, I loved it. Way up in the trees, you could hardly hear the yelling at all."

Callie blinked rapidly, coming back to the present moment. She hadn't meant to talk for so long. Who cared about those old scrub trees? What did it matter now?

She glanced at Brandon, who was looking at her with something like pity.

"That was actually a happy memory," she said defensively. "Believe it or not. I know it's stupid."

"It's not stupid," Brandon said slowly. "I want to hear all your happy memories. And the sad ones. You know that, right?"

He reached for her hand, slipping his fingers against her palm. Reflexively, her hand moved against his, grasping him tight. An embrace in miniature, but an embrace all the same.

"Yeah," she whispered.

"…What are you hiding from now?" he asked.

"I don't know," she lied.

_Me_, she thought. _I'm hiding from myself._

The two of them sat like that, high in the tree, silently holding hands, as the sun set, light slowly dwindling to dark. They didn't climb down until Lena called them for dinner.

* * *

Of all the lies that Callie had told – the casual _I'm fine_s; the weighty promises that everything with Brandon was in the past – lying to herself was the hardest. It was exhausting, the process of denying her own thoughts and feelings, locking them away at the back of her mind.

She'd forced herself to believe that she felt nothing for Brandon. And it had only created a continual, pressing weight in her chest.

That night, she woke up at three a.m., but instead of going downstairs to the couch, she crossed the hall to Brandon's room. Each footstep was loud in her mind, but the house slept on.

Closing the door behind her, she hesitated in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. She eased herself across the room, taking a seat on the edge of Brandon's bed.

In the darkness, in the hush, she breathed in the smell of him. She reached out and brushed her fingers across his lips. Then, when he began to stir, she leaned down to replace her fingers with her mouth. Slowly, gently, she kissed him awake. And she felt like she was waking up, too; coming back to herself.

"Callie…" he whispered and she quieted him with another kiss.

If she was honest with herself, she'd known from the first moment Brandon's suitcase had hit the mat that this would happen. If she was honest with herself, Stef and Lena were right to be suspicious.

_If she was honest, if she was honest…_

As she kissed Brandon and let him draw her down on top of him, a sense of inevitability accompanied it all. Terrible, euphoric inevitability. How had they ever denied this? The magnetism that pulled them together was too strong. It was exhausting to try and ignore it.

Even as her body relaxed into the moment, a nagging thought whispered to her. It might be tempting to see herself as the helpless victim of overwhelming, inevitable feelings, but she had to admit that maybe it wasn't inevitable; maybe she was choosing after all. Choosing him.

* * *

_**Next chapter:**__ Brandon and Callie go on a date! Also… sex._


	3. Chapter 3

In the school music room, they sat playing piano. The charade lasted maybe 10 minutes.

Callie practiced a particularly tricky run over and over. It was wrong in all the same places, every time, but she kept on. Over and over. Keeping her hands busy. Until finally Brandon reached over and lifted her hands off the keys.

He kissed the tips of her fingers, then the palm of hand. She felt a quiver run the length of her body. Then she looked away and pulled her hands back into her lap.

"Callie…"

"Not here," she said.

They didn't kiss in the daylight. Callie wasn't sure why, except that that would make it real. If they only kissed in the shadows, in the darkness, she could pretend that she was still in control of her feelings.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because anyone could come in at any moment," she said edgily, directing her gaze away from him and out the door.

Brandon let out a heavy, exasperated breath.

"You know how insane this makes me feel? You ignore me during me day and then at night…"

"I don't ignore you," she said softly.

Reluctantly, she looked over at him. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the naked _wanting_ in his eyes. The depth of his longing. She couldn't help but kiss him then – haphazardly, in a rush of desire.

This wasn't one of the dreamy, slow kisses they shared at three a.m. It was a hurried, clashing kiss, all teeth and tongues; a tangled sensation of wanting. She buried her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to fall deeper into the kiss.

And then she remembered where she was – where _they_ were – and she forced herself to pull away.

"We can't do this here," she said, even as her body screamed otherwise. "We can't."

As if to prove her point, there was a clatter of footsteps outside the door of the music room. A group of freshmen girls passed, talking loudly. One of them glanced, half-interested, through the open door. Callie felt her stomach twist. Even though she didn't recognise the girl, she felt shame churn inside of her, as she imagined Mariana in place of the unnamed girl.

"Callie," Brandon said slowly, "maybe we should talk to my moms. We have to tell them how we feel. They have to understand…"

The fact that he didn't say _our moms_ made her stomach twist again. She stood up abruptly, making the piano bench skid backward a few centimeters, Brandon sliding backward with it. She groped blindly for her backpack and turned to leave.

"We can't tell anyone," she said. "We should stop this. We have to stop."

* * *

There was no "we" about it, really. _I have to stop_ was what she meant. It wasn't _Brandon_ who crept into her bedroom at night. It wasn't _Brandon_ who was desperately trying to be two people at once.

Callie's whole life felt cleaved in two. There were two versions of herself, jostling side by side, overlapping but ultimately contradictory. The good daughter and the trashy foster girl who couldn't stop kissing the boy she couldn't have. There was the version of her that existed in daylight and the version of her that lived in the hush of three a.m.

"Goodnight, Callie," Lena said and Callie felt cool fingers brush the side of her face.

Lena bent to kiss her forehead and Callie breathed in the lilac scent of her perfume. Across the room, Stef bade Mariana goodnight and then walked to Callie's bedside, taking Lena's place.

"Goodnight, my sweet," Stef murmured to Callie, who felt her heart rend, rip right out of her chest.

"Night," Callie whispered, breathing shallowly to keep the scent of lilacs close by for a moment longer.

When they'd gone, she rolled over in bed, pulling the covers over her head, and closed her eyes. Her sleep was fitful, disturbed; her body biding its time. She still woke her up each night at three a.m., but it wasn't to cry. Not anymore.

Every night, she bade Stef and Lena goodnight, breathing in lilacs and their love. Then she crept into Brandon's bedroom and betrayed their trust.

Most of the time, Brandon was awake when she stole into his bedroom. Without greeting, without pretence, he kissed her like he was starving for it. Starving for her. Hair mussed, eyelids heavy from lack of sleep, he murmured his ardor.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you today. Driving me crazy, all day," he whispered, as he pressed her down onto the bed. "I'm sorry about earlier. I know we can't tell anyone, I know…"

"Shh," she murmured, closing her mind to everything except the feel of his lips on hers.

Some nights, he fell asleep waiting for her. Part of her preferred those nights, because – as she slipped into bed beside him, curling her body to fit his – it was almost possible to pretend that they'd gone to sleep together and they would wake up together. A normal couple.

When Brandon slept, he looked different. She never watched him sleep for long – just long enough to glimpse a different Brandon; boyish and untroubled. She'd never realized how much low-level anxiety tore up his face during the daytime. His face always wore traces of the thousand thoughts that ticked through his mind every moment he was awake. When he was asleep, just centimeters away, he was both familiar and unfamiliar to her. The same Brandon and someone new entirely.

She kissed him awake and watched the recognition glow in his eyes.

* * *

Each night, in the hush of his room, they kissed until their lips were sore and bruised. They kissed until they finally felt they could bear to be apart – and then they kissed some more, postponing the moment when they really had to be apart.

Some nights, they kissed until dawn. But they never did wake up together. Callie instead stole back into her own room to begin the day's charade anew.

* * *

She'd thought that, with her hair down, the hickey on her neck wouldn't be noticeable. Apparently, she'd thought wrong.

"W-ow," Mariana said with a teasing smile, "Wyatt's been getting friendly."

Callie's hand flew to her neck self-consciously. In their bedroom, she examined her reflection in the mirror. Wyatt's name registered with a pang and she thought of all the ignored messages from him on her phone. It was a small betrayal among so many bigger ones, but it made her feel queasy all the same.

"Can I borrow your concealer?" Callie asked.

"You're classic beige and I'm warm beige," Mariana said, frowning with obvious concern.

Callie couldn't help but laugh, despite her knotted stomach. "So?"

Mariana rolled her eyes and tossed over a tube of concealer, which Callie caught deftly. She looked back at the mirror and began to smear concealer over Brandon's hickey. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Mariana stripping off her pajama top and rummaging through her drawers for a clean bra.

She and Mariana had dispensed with their locker room prudishness long ago, but recently, Callie had reverted to changing her clothes in the bathroom. There wasn't just a hickey on her neck. Her body now betrayed numerous traces of Brandon. Traces that remained even in the cold light of day.

Slowly, slowly, they had begun unbuttoning each other, and there were marks left by Brandon's mouth at her throat, at her breast. On her thighs, there was the memory of fingers digging into flesh and leaving marks; the skin there showed the ghost of a bruise.

As she'd showered this morning, she'd rubbed the mark on her thigh and shivered at the sense memory of Brandon's fingers as they slipped inside of her. Callie felt like her body didn't belong to her alone anymore. She shared it with Brandon and, increasingly, she wanted to share it more.

At the store later that day, Callie found concealer in classic beige. Then she roamed the rest of the store, faux-casual. She had to walk the condom aisle twice before she worked up the courage to grab a box.

She remembered stopping at this store a few weeks ago with Mariana. They'd stood in line behind a woman buying false eyelashes, Jack Daniels and baby formula. They'd shared glances at her oh-so-revealing shopping list and tried not to giggle. As Callie set down her condoms and concealer at the checkout, she wondered what her shopping list said about her.

* * *

_Sex._ The word towered 50ft tall and terrifying in her mind, even as her body craved it.

During their short relationship, Wyatt had suggested it a couple of times, his expression good-humored and self-deprecating, anticipating her answer of "No". He probably would have been surprised to learn that she'd almost said "Yes". Why not have sex with Wyatt? Why not get it over with? It wouldn't be her first time. It would never be her first time again. So why not just do it?

Part of the reason she'd been tempted to have sex with Wyatt was that he didn't know her history. He wouldn't treat her like she was fragile, a broken doll scotch-taped back together. She could have lain back and let him do it. And maybe he would have enjoyed it; maybe he would have loved her for it. If she was honest, that was all sex had ever been in her mind: something you let someone do to you.

Brandon, unlike Wyatt, had never asked her if she wanted to have sex. Not jokingly; not seriously; not even as his boxer-clad erection pushed against her leg. For Brandon, she was still that broken doll. And he treated her with such care that it made her want to scream.

It was she who guided his fingers to the wetness between her legs. It was she who whispered "please, there, please" as his thumb ground against her clit. It was she who peeled away his underwear and took his erection in her hands, stroking awkwardly until she found a rhythm that seemed to work. It was she who bought condoms. It was she – one night as she slipped into his bed – who said, "Brandon, I want you to fuck me."

She'd rehearsed the phrasing of it. _I want you to have sex with me_ was too wooden. _I want you to make love to me_ sounded like something out of a romance novel. And, anyway, the word "love" felt too much like the word "goodbye" when it was in her mouth. _I want you to fuck me_ was the best she could come up with.

"Are you… are you sure?" he asked.

"I'm sure," she said.

"Are you… ready?"

Was there a checklist? A PSAT-style test she was supposed to sit?

Brandon's tendency to treat her like fine china was getting on her nerves. In answer to his question, she kissed him hard. She kissed him until they were both breathless. Then she twisted her pajama top up over her head. Brandon, his questions forgotten, scrambled out of his t-shirt, and they kissed again. The thrill of skin-on-skin contact, her breasts crushed against his chest, made that new feeling of heat pool in her belly, wetness growing between her legs.

She wriggled out of the rest of her clothes and climbed on top of him, naked. She rocked against his erection, which was still encased in his boxer shorts. He let out a stuttering gasp and then reached up to kiss her. Gently, he flipped her over onto her back and ground against her, murmuring something that might have been _CallieCallieCallie_ but sounded more like an incantation.

He shed his boxers, finally, and pressed her against the bed, spreading her open and sliding his fingers into her wetness. She keened against him, her hips arching to allow him access, her insides flexing around his fingers. She murmured without knowing what she was saying – her own incantation – as his fingers began working her toward her climax.

Half-crazed with wanting, she forced herself back into the moment and groped blindly for the box she'd placed on the nightstand. With shaky hands, she tore off a condom and fumbled it to Brandon.

"Callie, are you sure?" he asked again.

"Yes…" she murmured, "yes, yes, yes…"

* * *

Later, Callie would remember that there was something studious in Brandon's expression as he guided himself into her. It should have made her laugh, that have-to-get-an-A-on-the-assignment look on his face. They should have laughed together and kissed and enjoyed the moment.

Instead, she found herself seized by a sudden and unaccountable fear. She gripped his arms tightly as he entered her. She tried to conjure her earlier desire, but it had vanished. She felt only a paralyzed sense of detachment. She felt far away from her own body all of a sudden, as if she were floating near the ceiling, watching events as if they were happening to someone else.

She'd expected it to hurt – it had hurt with Liam and, even though this was different, _wanted_, she'd still expected it to hurt. She'd expected awkwardness, messiness, weirdness. Secretly, perhaps, in spite of everything else, she'd hoped that it would feel good – wonderful, even.

But she hadn't expected to feel nothing at all.

* * *

Her state of numbness persisted for the rest of the day. In the lull of late afternoon, she stood in the kitchen, her hands around a glass of juice, her mind miles away. She didn't hear Brandon approach, only smelled him, his clean, boyish scent enveloping her a moment before he spoke.

"Hey… you okay?"

"Fine… fine," she murmured, her favorite lie.

He reached out a hand to touch her and then, at the last minute, he didn't, his hand falling away awkwardly. She could almost see him remembering: touching in daylight was verboten.

"I know you're upset," he said in a low voice. "I know I upset you. What… we did. _I_ did."

He looked so agonized that she had to laugh. It was true that her body was sore today, but the real ache she felt was emotional, not physical. And it definitely wasn't his fault that her body and her brain didn't line up.

"You didn't upset me," she said.

She needed to kiss him then, needed to do it, despite all her own rules. Her gaze slid side to side, checking for prying eyes, and then she leaned up to him, savoring his familiar scent for just a second. It was a single kiss: the briefest touch of lips against lips; the barest of reassurances.

Then she pulled away and all the thoughts came rushing back into her busy mind. She saw him open his mouth to say something and she had to cut him off.

"I'm sorry, Brandon, I can't talk about it… I can't… it's too much…" She trailed off, feeling the pressure building in her lungs; the familiar heaviness.

He reached out to her again and, this time, he grabbed her hand.

"Brandon…" she began, but he tightened his grip on her hand.

He tugged her toward the back door.

"Come on, let's go climb a tree," he said.

Outside, in the yard, the day was dimming from afternoon into evening; the air cool against her skin. When they reached the tree, Brandon swung himself up onto the low branches. He climbed less awkwardly than before, with more confidence. When he'd climbed halfway to the top, he turned back, beckoning to her. She hesitated a moment and then began to climb.

She'd thought that when they reached the topmost cradle of branches, he would try to resume the conversation, probe her inner thoughts. Instead, he just sat, resting against a branch, his leg looped around the wood, supporting himself. She sat back, too, comfortably uncomfortable, on her perch high up in the tree.

She reached for him automatically, missing the contact of his hand in hers. And so they sat like that for a long time – not talking, just holding hands. Up there in the tree, listening to the rustle of leaves in the breeze, Callie found the noise inside her head was quieter.

* * *

That night, when Callie crept into Brandon's room, there remained just a trace of awkwardness. When he kissed her, it was more tentative than normal. They were whisper-soft kisses; kisses that weren't leading anywhere. He was being careful with her, she realized. So terribly careful.

She almost suggested they have sex again. Get back on the horse. Try again. But the idea frightened her – actually _frightened_ her – on some soul-deep, irrational level.

The truth was that she felt bone-tired, emotionally wrung out.

"Brandon," she murmured, "could you just… hold me…? Could we just… go to sleep…?"

She didn't mean to start crying, but she found she couldn't hold it in anymore. She curled herself up, almost foetal, and felt Brandon's arms tighten around her as she cried and cried and cried. She cried for the perfect First Time that never was. She cried for the nine-year-old girl who'd climbed trees in order to hide. She cried for Cole and Daphne and all the other lost boys and girls.

Brandon stroked her hair and pressed a kiss to her temple and held her until the tears finally ran out. Sleep drew her in, gradually, the rest of the world slowly fading. The feel of Brandon's arms around her, his familiar scent, the steady rhythm of his breathing – these were the last things to fade before sleep claimed her.

* * *

She woke up naturally, blurrily, to the glare of morning sunshine and the solid warmth of Brandon beside her. She curled closer to him, automatically, pushing her face into his shoulder, savoring the _safe_ feeling that accompanied his proximity. For one perfect moment, they were just _them_, waking up together on a sunny morning.

Then reality came back to her.

"…shit," she muttered, scrambling out of bed, "shit, shit, _shit_."

The clock read 6:45. _6:45!_ She could hear voices in the next door bedroom: Stef and Lena talking. There was a clattering sound of furniture from downstairs: the distant scraping of stools in the kitchen.

Brandon was a second or two slower to wake up, still struggling to open his eyes and process the situation. He mumbled incoherently, reaching out a hand to her, but she was already at the door. She flung it open, ready to skid out across the hallway. Then, realizing her mistake, she closed it again. Getting caught barrelling out of Brandon's room first thing in the morning was almost as bad as getting caught _inside_ Brandon's room first thing in the morning. She was wearing pajamas – they both were – but she couldn't help but feel that just the sight of her, hair rumpled and clothes creased, was incriminating.

She opened the door again, just a sliver this time. At that moment, Jesus came out of his bedroom. He strode toward the stairs, singing a Pharrell song under his breath, oblivious to Callie hidden behind the door.

Callie felt paralyzed by indecision. What if Jude was the next one to cross the hallway – or Stef, or Lena? Perhaps she should stay in Brandon's room – hide out until she could be sure that everyone was downstairs? But, in the meantime, Mariana was almost certain to notice her absence. It was a no-win situation. There was nothing to do but make a dash for it.

She cast one last glance at Brandon – for whom the reality of the situation was finally dawning, a troubled expression drawing his brows together – and then she slipped out of his bedroom, darting across the hallway to the door of her own room.

At night, she usually left her comforter artfully rumpled, enough to give the illusion that she was still in bed if someone were to glance in that direction. It was an illusion that would never hold up to the cold light of day, however. Barely breathing, Callie crept into her bedroom.

Typically, Mariana slept like the dead. In fact, it was not unusual for Callie to have to wake her up to make sure she wasn't late for school. As Callie padded quietly across the wood floor of their shared bedroom, her eyes sliding over to Mariana's bed, she prayed that this was one of those mornings.

It was not one of those mornings.

Mariana sat up in bed and yawned extravagantly.

"Oh my god," Mariana said, sounding disgusted.

"I was just… getting a drink from downstairs. I woke up really thirsty," Callie said, aware that she was speaking too fast and too loud.

The lie would not hold up to the slightest scrutiny. Jesus and whoever else was downstairs would know that she hadn't been to the kitchen. She was also not carrying a glass – surely, if she was so thirsty, she would be carrying a glass…

"Oh my god," Mariana repeated, her head dropping forward onto the comforter. "I cannot handle school today," she said, her voice muffled and mournful. "I need some British lady to show up and tell me I'm secretly a princess. Then I could spend all my time going to fancy banquets instead of studying for my biology quiz."

Callie sat down on her bed heavily and tried to remember how to breathe.

* * *

"We should go on a date," Brandon said.

"What?"

Callie stood at her locker, switching out her textbooks. Brandon leaned casually nearby, pretending to rummage through his backpack. Around them, the school corridor was near deserted – last period was over and the first rush of students had already emptied out.

"A date," Brandon repeated. "It's a courting ritual that's popular in America."

Callie closed her locker and looked around her. No one was looking at them. No one was close enough to hear their conversation. They were just two people, standing at arm's length, talking casually. Yet she was testy from the near-miss this morning. And something about Brandon's suggestion was making her testier still.

"We can't go on a date," she said.

"We can," he said lightly. "We _should_."

His tone of voice, his teasing smile, even just his decision to start this conversation – it was bugging her.

"What, dinner and a movie?" she asked sarcastically. "The beach at sunset? Go for ice cream sundaes at the mall and wait for Mariana to walk by? Or Jude. Or your moms." She realized her mistake as soon as she said it. "_Our_ moms, Brandon."

She watched his face fall and regretted the harshness of her tone immediately. She wanted to pull him close, kiss him, tell him she was sorry. But then, as if to provide a reminder of where they were, a group of senior jocks jostled past them, loud and rowdy.

Callie cast one last look at Brandon and then let herself be carried in the jocks' slipstream, toward the double doors of the school's exit.

* * *

Brandon, she was not surprised to learn, was not prepared to give up without a fight.

"We should go on a date," he said again that night.

As they lay together in bed, he traced vague, dreamy patterns on her arm. But his hands didn't even try to probe beneath her t-shirt or down below the waistband of her pajama pants. There was still a sense of awkwardness whenever they touched. They couldn't go back to the way things were before the sex card was played, but they also couldn't seem to move forward. It was like they were in a holding pattern.

The scare this morning, when she'd overslept, should, perhaps, have been enough to put Callie off her night-time excursions across the hall to Brandon's room. The fact that it hadn't – that she hadn't even considered staying away – was worrying to her. Also worrying was Brandon's refusal to let the date issue drop.

"One date," he said. "A first date." He dropped a kiss onto her shoulder. "We never got a first date. This whole time. I never got to walk into a restaurant and hold your hand and say, hey this is my date. This is Callie."

"No," she said and heard the sharpness in her own voice. She made an effort to soften it. "We can't go on a date. You know it's true. We can't."

"Not _here_, maybe. But… a couple towns over. Where no one will see us."

She shook her head.

"When it's you and me, in this room, we work," she said softly. "But we don't work out there in the real world."

As she said it, she realized the truth of it. It wasn't that she was worried about getting caught – it wasn't _just_ that – it was that it seemed unfathomable that she and Brandon could go to a restaurant like normal people. The realization came with a sharp pang of sadness.

She drew him toward her, kissing him desperately, chasing away the bad feelings, banishing the sense she had that this could only ever be temporary.

* * *

Brandon didn't bring up the date issue again and Callie thought – feeling half-relieved, half-disappointed – that he'd let it go. However, a couple of days later, it became apparent that he hadn't.

On Friday afternoon, Callie was walking home from Group when a car slowed to a crawl beside her. It was Brandon's car.

"Hey, pretty girl. Get in," a voice called.

It was Brandon's voice, but with a dumb fake accent. Sort of Southern, sort of New York. 100% dorky.

Callie continued walking and tried not to smile. On the quiet street, the car continued to tail her. When she cast a sidelong glance in Brandon's direction, he was leaning out the window, leering at her exaggeratedly. Correction: 200% dorky.

"I was always told not to get into cars with strangers," Callie said, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

"Well now, little lady," Brandon said, dialling up the fake accent, "strangers is just friends you haven't met yet. I'm looking for a lady friend and you fit the bill."

Callie stopped suddenly on the sidewalk and turned to face the car. Her hand flew to her throat, clutching at an invisible string of pearls.

"Why, sir," she said, her own fake accent landing closer to Charleston than Queens. "I'm not that type o' girl!"

"But my intentions are honourable!" Brandon said, as he brought the car to a halt. "I'm after a girl to marry."

Callie made a _pfft!_ gesture with her hand. "And why should I marry you?" she asked airily.

"I'm very well known," Brandon said, leaning further out the window. "Famous, even. In the field of botany. I'm a professor of bonsai trees."

Callie laughed and walked to the passenger side of the car. She climbed in, smiling at him.

"Hello, professor," she said.

"Hello," he said, smiling back at her.

She felt the heat rise in her face. The way that he looked at her overwhelmed her sometimes. It was hard to believe anyone could look at her with such fondness, such affection, such—her mind froze on the word _love_ and she looked away.

Brandon put the car into drive and they set off.

"How was Group?" he asked.

"Oh, y'know…" she said vaguely, keeping her eyes directed out the window. "It was okay."

As far as everyone at Group knew, she was the good daughter; loving family, adoption in the works. She was a Success Story. She told them about her new piano lessons and how supportive Stef and Lena were. She didn't tell them about the boy who'd first taught her piano, about stolen kisses in the music room.

"Uh, you missed the turn," she said, glancing over at him.

She expected him to say _there's construction on Euclid_ or _Ridge will be quicker_. But he just smiled and kept driving.

"Brandon…" she began warily.

"Lena has that big faculty meeting tonight," he said. "Stef's working the late shift. Me, I'm at Aidan's right now. And you're just about to text Mariana to say you're having dinner with your friends from Group. But what we're actually doing… is going on a date."

His eyes slid to meet hers, his smile growing into a grin. He sounded so pleased with himself. As far as he was concerned, it was a perfect plan, perfectly executed. Yet the ease of his lies – how well he'd worked it all out – unnerved her. Lies, lies, lies. So many lies. And not just lies of omission anymore. Actual lies.

"Brandon, this isn't a good idea."

He must have heard the sour note in her voice, because his grin vanished.

"I know, okay?" he said. "It sucks that we have to lie to everyone. It sucks that we can't just go to the movies down the street like a regular couple. But I want to go somewhere and spend a couple of hours feeling normal." He sounded frustrated now. "A couple of hours where I don't have to pretend. I want to look at you in daylight and… and… I don't know… put my arm around you without feeling like a criminal."

Callie was silent for a long time. Enough time for Brandon's expression to fade from aggravation to blankness.

"We can turn back if you want," he said quietly, seriously.

Callie remained silent. Everything he said was true. It would be a relief to go somewhere and just be… themselves. To kiss him in public. To hold hands. To look at him and think, _this is my date. This is Brandon_.

"I'm not dressed for dinner," she said at last.

She was dressed, in fact, in one of her most ancient tops: a faded green 'beater with a thumb-sized hole near the hem.

"You look beautiful," he said, so patently genuine in every word that she felt her stomach flip.

* * *

"So you took me to a taco stand," Callie said an hour later.

"A taco stand… on the beach… with… a jazz band playing."

Brandon gesticulated emphatically, his enthusiasm quickly overtaken by uncertainty.

"An actual jazz band. Which… is weird," he said, visibly deflating. "And… lame. Basically. The weirdest, lamest first date ever."

Callie laughed.

"It's a little weird," she said. "And you're a little lame. But I like that."

They stood in line for tacos and listened to the band. The taco stand was shabby, staffed by youthful, hipsterish types who bobbed their heads to the music as they threw together the food. By contrast, every member of the band looked positively ancient, wrinkled and wizened. Yet they played with effortless dexterity. They all wore suits – one man even wore a pork pie hat – and the contrast with the rough-and-ready food was bizarre. And delightful.

"How did you find out about this place?" Callie asked.

"Um… it's a really well-kept secret that gets passed from person to person." Brandon paused for a second before his straight face lapsed into a grin. "I read about it online."

The idea of Brandon trawling the internet looking for places for them to go on their date, carefully planning every aspect of the evening, made her feel vaguely inadequate. As if, perhaps, she'd tricked him, and there was another, better girl out there who would be more deserving of his attentions.

"You know," Brandon continued conversationally, "the guitar player and the saxophone player are married. They've been married for, like, 47 years."

Callie glanced over at the band: she saw the gaunt man in the hat on sax and the woman on guitar, who had a curtain of white hair that fell to her waist.

"They must hate each other," Callie said without thinking. "I mean… living together. Working together. All that time."

"I think it's romantic," Brandon said, sounding faintly wounded.

They took their tacos and wandered down the beach, close enough that they could still hear the music, but far enough to leave the chatter of the other patrons behind. It wasn't crowded, but just busy enough to unnerve Callie. Rationally, she knew that, an hour from Anchor Beach, at the most random of dinner spots, they would surely be safe from prying eyes. Yet it took her a while to un-hunch her shoulders, to stop scanning the throng for people they knew. It took her a while to remember to enjoy herself.

With nothing except for the taco stand to draw people to it, the stretch of beach was relatively secluded. It was peaceful in the evening light, the sun sinking slowly toward the horizon. They sat on the sand and ate, watching the waves and the setting sun. Brandon gave Callie his jacket for warmth and then, when the day cooled further, the sun slipping away completely, he wrapped her up in his arms.

She had to force herself not to flinch away from him when a family – mom and dad and two girls with brightly-colored plastic shovels – wandered past them. Even as her body craved closeness with Brandon, she couldn't seem to relax. Belatedly, she realized the truth of it: she didn't want to enjoy it too much. She didn't want to get used to it.

"We should go," she said. "It's getting late."

"It's barely eight-thirty," he said. "We have time."

"We should go," she said again.

Brandon looked down at the sand, shuffling the heel of his shoe back and forth, digging absently.

"Sorry I dragged you out here tonight," he said.

"You didn't drag me—"

"I did," he interrupted, "but I wanted you to see. That we work, Callie. That we work in the outside world. The real world. We can be normal and happy and… just, _normal_." He made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat and exhaled hard. "There's something twisted about how we have to be at home. I get that. But it's not going to be like that forever. It's not a foregone conclusion.

"How I feel about you," he said, "it's not twisted. You should know that… I can't imagine feeling this way about anyone else. I don't _want_ to imagine that."

Callie had a sudden flash of how Brandon saw their relationship. Not as something temporary – not as something skidding inevitably toward the cliff edge – but as part of a bigger picture. As far as he was concerned, tonight was a preview of how things could be – _would_ be. Brandon, it seemed, truly believed that they would find a way to be together. He believed their lives would someday become a series of kooky date nights at taco stand jazz spots. For 47 years and more.

"I want to believe that we can figure out a way to be together," she said slowly. "It's just… hard for me." She sighed. "Sixteen years of bad luck and I'm just supposed to believe it all turns around now? Supposed to trust that?"

Brandon frowned.

"…You trust _me_, though, don't you?" he asked.

"Rationally, yes." She drew his arm more tightly around herself, leaning into his warmth. "Yesyesyes, I trust you. But then… sometimes my mind gets all messed up. I've been treating you like crap all week—"

"You haven't—"

"I have. Not on purpose. I've just been trying to deal with some stuff."

"Deal with what?"

"It's my own stuff, Brandon. I'm the only one who can deal with it."

"…It's about Liam, isn't it?" he asked quietly.

She felt tears spring to her eyes automatically and she willed herself not to cry. She was so sick of crying about this. She was sick of crying over _him_.

"I feel like he still has all this power over me," she said.

"He only has power over you if you let him have power over you."

"That's crap," she said vehemently. "That's crap therapists say. It doesn't mean anything. It just makes me feel guilty that I'm not over it yet."

Brandon looked stricken. "Callie, I'm sorry. I don't know what to say…"

"You don't need to say anything," she said dismissively. "It doesn't matter."

At the sound of Liam's name, Callie realized she'd tensed. Now she forced herself to relax again, concentrating on the reassuring weight of Brandon's arm around her shoulder.

"It does matter," he said. "I feel like there's been something wrong between us, ever since we… ever since we had sex."

She didn't reply.

"Did I…" he trailed off and then tried again. "Did I hurt you? Did I do something…"

"No," she said. "It wasn't you."

She stared out at the dark ocean, feeling her throat close up. When she was able to speak again, she found her voice had dropped to a whisper.

"I just felt like… I wasn't there. Like I was… out in space somewhere. Like I was… lost… and there was nobody to find me."

It made her feel calm, strangely, to articulate these feelings. To hear her own fears spoken aloud. To release that particular secret and feel it drift away on the breeze.

They were both silent for a long time. Then Brandon finally spoke, rapidly and in a rush:

"You know, the first time I had sex with Talya, we rented a hotel room. We had it for two hours. We only spent ten minutes actually having sex. And then we watched _Adventure Time_ for the next hour and fifty minutes—"

Without meaning to, Callie burst out laughing. The force of her laughter took her by surprise. Brandon smiled ruefully and continued:

"I don't know why we didn't just leave. The principle of the thing, maybe. But anyway, I still can't watch _Adventure Time_ without feeling this weird, squirmy, inadequate kind of feeling. I know that's about a million miles away from what happened with Liam, but… I just thought you should know that… I have baggage about sex, too. _Adventure-Time_-shaped baggage."

She laughed again.

"I'm sorry," he added, when her laughter died down. "I'm sorry you had to feel that way. I'm sorry there's nothing I can do to fix it. I'm… just… I'm sorry, Callie."

"It's not your fault," she said.

"Maybe we should forget about sex for a while," he said. "For my sake, I mean. To spare me the _Adventure Time_ flashbacks."

"Maybe," she said.

In his arms, she twisted to face him, her hands reaching up to cup the sides of his face.

"But, the thing is," she added, "I want you, Brandon. I really, really want you…"

She saw the flush rise in his cheeks, the _wanting_ growing in his expression. Without checking for prying eyes, without thinking twice, she leaned in and kissed him.

As they kissed, she felt a sense of warmth flood her body – not just the surface heat of attraction, but a _warmth_ that began in her chest and radiated outward, reaching the very tips of her fingers and toes.

* * *

She'd been right to worry, she mused wryly as Brandon's car pulled into their driveway. In just a few short hours, she'd gotten used to it. She'd gotten used to having Brandon's arm around her. She'd gotten used to being able to kiss him without checking the coast was clear. She'd gotten used to their relationship being whole, fully-formed, rather than just a shadow.

They held hands as they walked to the front door, postponing letting go until the last acceptable moment. Then, when Callie took out her keys to unlock the door, they finally separated. She felt the loss of contact like a physical pain.

"Thank you for tonight," she said quietly as they stepped inside. "I'm glad we finally got our first date."

They'd prepared an excuse for why they were arriving home together – Callie had asked Brandon to pick her up after dinner with her support group – but it turned out to be unnecessary. The house was quiet when they stepped inside. It seemed that Lena was not yet home. Stef was also still at work. They found Mariana on the couch, asleep, with her biology textbook propped up against her chest. When they walked upstairs, there was a line of light under Jesus and Jude's door, but no noise coming from within. For once, it seemed, the universe was conspiring in their favor.

Without speaking, Callie reached for Brandon's hand and they crept into his bedroom, closing the door securely behind them. They didn't turn on the lights. They didn't talk. They just kissed. They kissed and kissed and undressed, stumbling in their haste. They half-fell onto the bed, still shedding clothes, until finally it was just skin between them.

Somewhere at the back of her mind, fear still whispered to her, but it was only a whisper now. This wasn't sex in the abstract, she realized. It was sex _with Brandon_. Whatever barriers there were in her mind, whatever demons lurked there, they didn't include Brandon. She trusted Brandon. She was safe with Brandon.

The awkwardness of the last few days had melted away. She felt only this sense of warmth and closeness as she crawled on top of him. As she guided him inside of her, rocking against him, eliciting the first stir of orgasm, this time she felt connected to the moment. Connected to him.

* * *

_**Next chapter:**__ Brandon and Callie get a little reckless..._


	4. Chapter 4

Callie closed her eyes. Water from the shower head fell against her skin, a steady thrum that she felt right to her core. Steam clouded her mind and water fell against her skin. In that moment, she was nothing but skin. Heat and steam and skin.

There was a knock on the bathroom door.

It was followed immediately by more knocking, insistent and impossible to ignore. Callie's eyes flew open.

"Come on, Brandon," Jesus's voice called through the door. "I know you're in there."

More knocking.

"Yeah, I'm in here," Brandon called back at last. "Go away."

"I need my deodorant, man," Jesus said. "The good stuff. I got wrestling today. And a date. Come on, man."

"I'm in the _shower_," Brandon said.

"So? I don't care about your junk, dude. Just let me grab my deodorant."

Jesus knocked again, for emphasis.

"He's not going away," Brandon said to Callie in an undertone.

The water had turned his hair jet black. His eyes seemed darker, too, framed by wet lashes, although perhaps it was just desire she saw there. Callie still felt the thrum of her own desire deep in her core. Reality, however, was seeping back into the moment, setting her off balance. She gripped Brandon's arms hard, her fingers pressing into his shower-slick skin.

"You can't let him in!" she murmured.

There was no way the skimpy, see-through shower curtain could hide her.

"He probably won't even notice you're in here," Brandon whispered. "He's Jesus."

There was a trace of amusement in Brandon's voice, which contrasted sharply with the rising panic that Callie felt.

"_Brandon!_" Callie exclaimed.

It was a whisper-shout, rather than a real shout, and it was covered by the white noise of the running shower – but only just. Callie's tone of voice seemed to snap Brandon back to seriousness.

Jesus knocked again. "Come _onnn_," he whined through the door.

Brandon stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his waist. He handed a second towel to Callie.

"You go out that door"—Brandon gestured to the door that opened into the hallway—"and I'll let Jesus in through _this_ door"—he jabbed at the door that opened into Jesus and Jude's room.

Callie could feel her heart beating in her throat. "What if someone _sees_ me?"

"It'll be, like, two seconds," Brandon said. "And everyone's probably downstairs by now."

Callie mouthed the word _probably?!_ at him, but as Jesus continued to hammer on the door, she couldn't come up with any alternative plan. She wrapped the towel around herself and moved to stand by the door that led to the hallway. Brandon positioned himself at the other door. He mouthed _three, two, one_ and then—

Callie opened her door at the same moment that Brandon opened his. She slipped out into the hallway, which was mercifully empty. Her heart continued to thud in her chest, too fast and (to her ears) too loud. Still wet and now beginning to shiver, she was dripping a puddle onto the hardwood floor – a puddle of water and embarrassment and guilt.

Through the door, she heard the muffled exchange between Jesus and Brandon.

"_Fi_-nally," Jesus exclaimed.

"I'm trying to take a shower, man," Brandon replied, "so get what you need and get out."

"You been taking some looong showers lately, dude," said Jesus. "You need to find a girlfriend."

The sound of Jesus's laughter was accompanied by a door slamming. Seconds later, the door in front of Callie opened and Brandon pulled her back inside the bathroom.

The bathroom smelled overwhelmingly like Axe body spray.

Callie stumbled toward the sink, leaning heavily against the porcelain, limp as a ragdoll.

"I feel like I'm having a heart attack," she said, as her heart threatened to beat right out of her chest.

Brandon moved closer, pulling her into a hug, which she was barely able to return.

"You're fine… we're fine," he murmured, although she heard a note of uncertainty in his voice.

She closed her eyes and leaned into him. His body was still warm from the shower's steam, while hers was prickled with gooseflesh. He used his hand to rub a slow circle against her back. Then he unhooked her towel from under her arm, his hands moving lower, stroking, rubbing. Wet skin against wet skin.

"You need to calm down," he said.

She did need to calm down. She needed to get out of there. She needed to join her family for breakfast. She needed to go to school. She needed to stop taking chances. She needed to stop giving in to the carnal pull of Brandon's hands, Brandon's mouth—

_Brandon's mouth._

She watched with hungry eyes as Brandon dropped to his knees in front of her. She leaned back against the porcelain of the sink. Her heart was beating faster than ever, loud in her ears, as Brandon spread her open, fingers and then mouth coaxing at the heat between her legs.

* * *

In the music room at lunchtime, Callie played the piano, her fingers skimming the keys gracefully, notes rising up into the room like smoke lifted on the breeze.

Beside her on the piano bench, Brandon shifted. He leaned in close. His lips brushed the skin of her shoulder, his head falling in the hollow of her neck, like he was breathing her in. She felt his hand against her leg as she played on: palm flat against her thigh, fingers pushing between her legs.

"You're distracting me…" she murmured.

"Play through it, Mozart," Brandon said and she could hear the smile in his voice. "The Grim Reaper used to play lawn mower sounds at top volume and make me play through it."

Callie spluttered out a laugh. "_Why_?"

"Because he was crazy. A crazy genius."

Brandon's hand moved between her legs.

"You should be able to play through distractions," he said.

Finally, she couldn't resist turning her head, catching his lips in a kiss. It was a long kiss, greedy, full of memories of the shower this morning. Brandon's hand moved up her thigh, rubbing at the V of her legs. As his thumb grazed her clit through her jeans, she bloomed for him.

She wanted to slam the piano lid shut. Let his hands lift her up onto it, grind her hips against his. Let him spread her open against the worn wood. She wanted to have sex right there in the music room. The door was closed. No one would have to know. _No one would have to know…_

She forced herself to pull away, breaking the kiss. Her hands returned to the keys. She played with desperation, with passion, with recklessness surging inside her. Her route to orgasm hummed at the surface of her skin, as it had done all day. She knew she was seconds from letting him draw her into another kiss.

The door to the music room banged open.

Callie and Brandon sprang apart, Brandon pulling his hands back into his lap. Callie's fingers tensed against the keys, playing a few discordant notes before she recovered herself. She looked over at the door.

Talya paused in the doorway, watching the two of them intently. Then she lifted her chin and walked into the room.

"What are you doing here?" Brandon asked, not bothering to mask his rude tone of voice.

"Uh, I need to practice? You're not, like, the only two people in the whole school who play music," said Talya.

Callie recalled suddenly that Talya played the flute. She'd learned, during the five minutes that Talya had pretended to be her friend, this and other assorted things. Talya's dream was to go to Tisch. She ate her fries unsalted because she said it was healthier. She liked yellow roses and Brandon had given her 16 for her birthday the previous year.

The random facts about Talya came back to Callie in a deluge, making her feel inadequate and a little guilty. Callie didn't have a favorite flower or a dream school or a romantic birthday memory. But she had given Talya a good reason to hate her.

Without looking at either Brandon or Talya, Callie stood up. She stooped to grab clumsily at her backpack and then walked out of the room. She willed Brandon to stay behind and keep up the pretence of an innocent practice session. But when she reached the corridor, he was right there, behind her.

"She didn't see anything," Brandon said in an undertone.

"She could've done," said Callie.

Together, they hastened down the corridor away from the music room, the sound of Debussy on the flute chasing after them.

"…Even if she did, who cares? Who is there for her to tell? She has zero credibility. She'd just look bitter."

Callie wanted to believe Brandon. It was tempting to underestimate Talya, but every instinct in Callie's body screamed that it was a bad idea to do so. Talya could make a lot of trouble for them if she chose to.

The quiet corridor that led away from the music room had flowed into one of the school's main arteries, now clogged with a post-lunch crush of bodies. There was no way for Callie and Brandon to talk more. Caught up in the crowds, they fell out of step. A natural parting. Brandon reached out and squeezed her hand for just a second before a surge of people separated them.

* * *

In her bedroom, as the shadows of afternoon stretched, Callie watched the motes of dust collect in a single shaft of sunlight.

Her phone was gripped limply in one hand as she stared down at her floorboards. She'd tried to photograph it – that rectangle of light; the texture of the dust against the wood – but she'd found she couldn't capture it. She stood and stared at it, thinking vaguely that she could try and find some paint. She hadn't painted since she was 9 years old – a different lifetime – but for some reason she really wanted to be able to render the look of that rectangle of dust and sunlight. Render it and keep it forever.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

Callie looked up and saw Brandon at her bedroom door. She realized she was standing in the middle of the room, staring at nothing. Like a crazy person.

"Trying to… take a picture?" Callie said, scrunching up her face into an embarrassed smile. "The light is really beautiful right here." She hesitated and then beckoned him closer. "Come see."

Brandon took a few steps in the room.

"What am I looking at?" Brandon asked, confused.

"The… light. And the… dust. And the… floorboards."

Callie gestured emphatically, but Brandon still looked confused. Finally, she sighed.

"Don't worry, it doesn't matter," she said. "I look at floorboards and they drive me nuts. That's all."

"Okay…" Brandon said softly, smiling at her.

"That's what it'll say on my tombstone. Callie Foster: who stared at floorboards." She paused and then corrected herself: "Callie Jacob."

Brandon looked at her for a long moment and then said:

"It's cool… that you can look at things that way. See things other people don't."

Hearing the admiration in his voice, Callie forgot where she was for a moment. She couldn't resist stealing a kiss. Then another. Then Brandon's hands were at her hips. Then—

The footsteps on the stairs were stomping, angry footsteps. The sound was just loud enough to bring Callie back to reality.

"I cannot. Believe. That I've had. Mustard. On my. Sweater. The entire. Afternoon."

Each of Mariana's words was accompanied by a heavy stomp of her feet. The moment that she reached the bedroom doorway, Callie's hands were just shoving Brandon behind the door.

"And no one told me!" Mariana continued. "It's so embarrassing. I must have looked like a complete hobo the whole way through math."

Mariana flounced into the room and began digging in the closet. Callie, meanwhile, hovered near the door, paranoid that perhaps Brandon was not adequately covered by it.

"I mean, it's only math, but it's so boring that probably _more_ people noticed. Because it was so boring! Oh my _goddd_."

Mariana flung the objectionable, mustard-stained sweater on the floor and squeezed into a new one that she'd found in the closet.

Callie waited for Mariana to look in her direction—

—to spy Brandon behind the door—

—to settle on her bed and ask Callie to close the door—

—_to catch them_—

However, her rant over, Mariana simply flounced out of the room, barely glancing at Callie.

As a shell-shocked Callie listened to the sound of Mariana's footsteps descending the stairs, Brandon slipped out from behind the door, laughing softly.

"Mustard," he said. "On her sweater. In math class. I literally can't think of anything worse."

Brandon leaned in to Callie, stealing one last kiss. Then he bounded away, tilting his head to indicate that she should follow him.

"Come on," he said, "let's go outside."

* * *

"Why do you keep climbing that tree?" Jude asked quietly.

In the lull that followed dinner, the kitchen was empty except for Callie and Jude. Callie stood at the sink, washing dishes that she then passed to Jude for drying. Out the window, it was still light enough to see the outline of the big tree in the yard. Jude glanced at it and then looked back at Callie.

"What?" she asked.

His question set Callie off balance, yanking her out of her hazy headspace. Her mind had been miles away. Or, to be accurate, her mind had been upstairs, with the boy who sat in his bedroom playing the piano, notes drifting down to the kitchen.

"You've climbed that tree three times this week."

She bit back the urge to say, _I haven't_. Jude's tone was matter of fact. He wouldn't have brought it up unless he was certain – not unless he'd been watching; noticing every detail; calculating what was going on.

"…I like climbing trees," Callie said at last.

"Right," Jude said.

* * *

Jude's small-voiced _Right_ troubled her more than if he'd yelled at her.

Was it a warning? Was he telling her that he knew about her and Brandon, giving her a chance to end it and make things right before he spoke up?

Or was he washing his hands of her? Was this his way of telling her that she was on her own? That their days of being a package deal were now over and she was free to do as she liked? Free to screw up her life however she pleased?

The questions accumulated in Callie's mind as the night wore on. She couldn't figure out any of the answers, but she knew one thing for certain: she'd been stupid all day; she needed to stop breaking her own rules.

"We're being reckless," she said to Brandon, urgency making her voice ragged. "I can't deal with almost getting caught every day. When you kiss me, it needs to be behind a closed door."

In the dark of Brandon's bedroom, his naked body moved against hers.

"Look," he murmured. "The door is closed."

As he inclined his head toward the door, his neck strained upward. She kissed the sinews that twisted there, and drew him down on top of her.

"Okay," she said, "okay…"

Whether she was mollified by his words or simply sedated by the reassuring weight of his body, she couldn't say. Either way, she let her worries drift away – for the time being, at least. She allowed feeling to replace thought; passion to replace reason.

* * *

By design, they were always quiet when they had sex. So quiet. Orgasms were accompanied by bitten lips and fingernails digging into flesh, not by cries or moans. In the deepest moments of orgasm, they inhabited their own little world, far away from the rest of the house. It felt safer that way, to mentally remove themselves from their surroundings.

It also made them almost completely deaf to what was going on outside of Brandon's bedroom door. As Callie rocked against Brandon, her fingernails biting into his shoulder hard enough to break the skin, she was aware of nothing but her coming orgasm.

She did not hear the footsteps running up and down the stairs.

She did not hear the muffled rise and fall of voices drifting through the house.

She didn't even hear the two-finger tap on the bedroom door or the way the hinges sighed as it was pushed open.

The first thing she heard was Stef's voice saying, "Get dressed."

* * *

_**Next chapter:**__ is the final chapter._


	5. Chapter 5

_**Note:**__ This is the final chapter. Thanks so much for reading. I've really been touched by your comments. If you're so inclined, check out some of my other fic at AO3 (I will never be able to get my head around the no-RPF rule at this site) or come squee with me about Brallie on tumblr (I'm 'iridescentglow' at both)._

* * *

It was three a.m. and the world was ending.

"How long has this been going on? Did it ever stop? How long have you been lying to us?"

Stef's voice strained under the control needed to keep from shouting. She paced up and down, her posture severe, her cop tendencies seeping out unintended. Lena laid a hand on Stef's arm, but the gesture seemed to do little to soothe her.

The four of them – Stef, Lena, Brandon and Callie – stood in the living room. It was night outside, the street quiet, but all the lights were on at the Fosters'. It was all wrong.

Callie was dressed in pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt. She'd thought, when she'd pulled it on, that it was her t-shirt. It was only now, in the light, that she realized it was Brandon's t-shirt. That made it worse. For his part, Brandon wore a shirt grabbed from his closet, buttoned wrong.

Brandon wasn't answering Stef's questions. Instead, he was hung up on the fact that she didn't wait for a response before opening his bedroom door.

"That's, like, a huge invasion of privacy!" he exclaimed.

"Privacy is a luxury, not a right!" Stef retorted. "When you're twenty-five and living on your own, you can have privacy. In this house, you don't get privacy."

Lena cut in, slipping into school mediator mode, her voice unnaturally calm.

"We were worried, Brandon," Lena said. "Mariana woke up in the middle of the night and found that Callie's bed was empty. We checked the whole house. We thought she'd run away."

The final word of the sentence went unspoken. _Again._ Run away _again._

Callie heard noises from upstairs. Stef and Lena had sent the others back to bed, but Callie would bet good money that they were sitting at the top of the stairs, listening to the argument. She'd caught sight of Jude's face before Lena had ushered her downstairs. The look of resignation in his expression had been crushing. Not hurt. Not anger. _Resignation._

"I just don't like being woken up in the middle of the night and interrogated like a criminal!" Brandon said.

Stef let out a bark of laughter.

"Woken up? What the two of you were doing didn't involve sleeping."

"You can't try and make it sound… tawdry," said Brandon. "We love each other. It's not wrong. You can't make me think it's wrong."

"He's right, Stef," said Lena. "It's not about the sex. We don't care about the sex." (Though her facial expression indicated that she did care about the sex, at least a little.) "It's about the lying."

Lena used her left hand to cradle her stomach, perhaps unconsciously. She wasn't showing yet, but she stood as if protecting an imagined bump. It seemed to Callie that Lena wished she could send the blueberry-sized baby upstairs and away from this conversation, too.

Brandon let out a loud, exasperated breath.

"You wouldn't let us see each other. So we had to lie," he said, like it was simple.

If Brandon's exhalation had been loud, Stef's was louder. She threw her hands up, obviously aggravated.

Callie realized she hadn't spoken at all during the conversation. Not one single word.

"I'm sorry," she said in a small voice. It was all she could think to say.

Stef's face softened then.

"Callie," she said, making an effort to sound calm, "it's not about sorry. You know why we're upset, don't you? You are a hair's breadth away from being Brandon's sister. His legal sister. We're not talking morality or ethics or… ickiness. We're talking about the law."

"So you're saying you don't want to adopt me anymore," Callie said.

"We're saying we already adopted you!" Stef exclaimed, aggravation creeping back into her voice.

"You're our daughter," said Lena. "In every way that matters."

Callie felt her throat close up again, rendering her mute.

The conversation continued on and on in circles. Stef and Brandon, equally hot-headed, sparred back and forth. Lena played peacemaker, with little success. And Callie stood in silence, feeling like the floor was collapsing beneath her feet.

Brandon kept repeating the words "we love each other", like it was a talisman.

"You can't use that as a get-out-of-jail-free card, Brandon," said Stef. "It doesn't work that way."

"Well, maybe it should!"

"Brandon, you're not going to argue your way out of this one," said Lena. "You two cannot be in a relationship. End of story."

"You can't stop us!"

"You need some space," said Lena tightly. "Both of you. Some perspective. There's a bigger picture here. I know you don't see it right now, but you will."

"We're gonna look at schools," said Stef.

"Like _reform_ schools?" Brandon broke in.

Lena was frowning. This was obviously not a plan that Stef had shared with her.

"Like… boarding schools," said Stef. "With great music programs."

Stef gave a wincing smile, as if this was a punishment that wasn't really a punishment. Brandon looked dazed, as if the reality of the situation was finally dawning on him.

"Let's all get some sleep," said Lena, still frowning. "Discuss this with clear heads in the morning."

Brandon seemed about to say something – flare up again – but Callie saw the fight die in his expression and he said nothing. When he met Callie's eyes, she looked away, down at her own feet.

She listened to him stomp out of the room and up the stairs. From the second floor, there was a distant scuttling, the sound of lighter footsteps separating, back to their own rooms. Then there was the noise of multiple doors closing, although Callie guessed that the only slamming door belonged to Brandon.

Stef let out a sigh, her anger and affront draining away, replaced by obvious tiredness. Callie shuffled over to her, half-afraid she was about to be rebuffed, and hugged Stef. The hug was tentative, until Stef squeezed her tight, and Callie found herself clinging to her for dear life.

"Callie, go up to bed, get some sleep," Lena said to her softly, laying a hand on her shoulder.

Callie let go of Stef and turned to Lena, hugging her just as tightly.

* * *

With the smell of Lena's lilac-scented perfume lingering in her nostrils, Callie crawled into her own bed. When Lena closed the door, her footsteps trailing away, the room swung into darkness.

There was silence, and Callie thought that maybe Mariana was asleep. Then there came her voice from across the room, unusually reedy.

"Why would you do this again?"

Callie propped herself up in bed and looked over at Mariana. Even in the dark, she could see that Mariana had been crying; she could hear the tears in her accusation.

"Don't you want to be part of this family? Don't you want that?"

Callie couldn't bring herself to reply.

She had thought, in idle daydreams, that maybe Mariana would understand. Mariana the romantic. Mariana, who spent each day mooning over Zac like she was a 19th century heroine. Mariana, who really had been a sister to Callie.

"You're just selfish," Mariana said finally. "You never really cared about us. You can't have done."

Mariana made a show of turning over in bed to face the wall. Callie stared at the hunched line of her back for a long moment. Then she pulled the covers over her head and curled up, knees against her chest. She realized she was still wearing Brandon's t-shirt. When she pressed the cotton to her face, she found it smelled like him.

* * *

It was perhaps an hour later when Callie climbed out of bed. She packed quickly, expertly, taking only precisely what she knew she'd need. Mariana, in her bed, still lay facing the wall. Callie wasn't sure if she was asleep or simply ignoring her. _Good riddance_, she imagined Mariana thinking, attributing to Mariana a viciousness that she'd never shown in real life.

Callie stepped out into the hallway, backpack on her shoulder. Her footsteps made a light shuffle-squeak sound against the floor as she crossed to the stairs. She passed Brandon's room. There was a line of light under the door, and she heard muffled noises that might have been him pacing up and down. She didn't even consider going inside his room. She felt as if it were wired with alarms.

Anyway, as she now realized, what had gone on inside the sanctuary of Brandon's room was a fantasy. Every dreamy kiss, every hushed word; it was all fantasy. Tonight – Stef and Lena's disapproval; Mariana's teary accusations; Jude's sad look of resignation – was the reality.

Callie walked down the stairs and out the front door. It was still dark outside, despite the fact that this night seemed to have lasted for 20 hours already. Tiredness was beginning to catch up to her, chasing after the adrenaline of the last couple of hours. Letting the door close behind her, she hesitated and then sat down heavily on the stoop.

She had to go. She knew that. She'd tried to be the good daughter and failed. It was just another ill-fitting role; another version of herself that rang false.

She'd exchanged her pajama pants for jeans, though she still wore Brandon's oversized t-shirt beneath her jacket. She slipped her phone from her pocket. She needed to toss it soon – otherwise they'd be able to trace her. She hesitated again and then tapped out a message.

_Come down. Say goodbye._

Each brief word hurt her.

Callie sat on the stoop, knees drawn up to her chest, head drooping low. A couple of minutes elapsed and then she heard the door open behind her. She willed herself not to spring to her feet and throw herself into his arms.

"Callie, what—?"

She couldn't see Brandon's face, but she heard the alarm in his voice.

"Come say goodbye," she croaked out.

"_Goodbye_?"

He took a seat beside her on the stoop, grabbing at her arm. She remained still, non-reactive. She couldn't look at him.

"Callie—?"

"It's time for me to go," she said.

"You're leaving? Right now?"

"I'm leaving either way," she said. The gargantuan effort needed to keep from crying was making her voice sound blank. "To some boarding school. To a group home. I'd rather leave on my own terms."

"I'm coming with you," he said immediately.

"No…"

"We can run away and be together," he said eagerly. "It'll prove to everyone that this is for real."

"No," she said, more sharply this time.

Brandon was silent for a moment and then he said:

"Either you let me come with you or I'm going upstairs to wake everyone up."

Anger flared inside of her. Brandon wanted so badly to control every situation. He could never see from anyone else's perspective. His matter-of-fact threat opened up wounds for her, both fresh and festering.

"This is your fault," she burst out. "You could never accept that it had to be a secret. You kept pushing. I kept telling you and you kept pushing—That stupid date. All those times we almost got caught. It was a joke to you! Getting caught was a joke!

"And I know why… I know why you don't care that everyone knows now. It's because – no matter what – Stef will always be your mom. Your real mom. Flesh and blood. I don't have that. I'm already pretty sure I've lost Jude. These people"—she gestured to the dark house behind her—"they'll never be my real family. I'll never have that."

Some of her accusations were fair. Some, she knew already, were completely unfair. But she felt each one as if it were true, the heat of anger coursing through her veins. She stood up, grabbing her backpack. If she was mad at him, she could bring herself to leave. If she could just stay mad at him—

"Callie…"

Brandon stood up, too, his face registering shock. She caught his eye for a moment and then looked away.

"Callie—I'm sorry—I didn't think," he said. "I was stupid." He paused, desperation sounding in his voice. "If I could fix it—if I could—"

"You can't."

Brandon was silent for a long moment. Then he said:

"If you want to leave, I won't do anything. I won't tell them anything. But. I want to come with you… I want to be with you forever."

The words hung in the air and Callie felt ready to scream or cry or both. Brandon could say these things and not hear the implausibility of it all – that nothing ever lasted forever; that love would always break your heart.

"Listen…" he said slowly. "I'm gonna go upstairs. Get my stuff from the house. Either you'll still be here when I come back down or… you won't. Your choice."

He didn't try to kiss her or hug her or even catch her still-evasive gaze. He just gave a slight shrugging-wincing motion and turned back to the house. He slipped back in through the front door without another word.

She shifted the straps of her backpack from one shoulder to the other. The scream-or-cry sensation still brimmed up inside of her, filling her throat, making it hard to breathe.

She needed to go—without him.

She needed to get away. But…

_But…_

If she ran, wasn't that just hiding by another name?

If she ran, wasn't she just consigning herself to life up a tree? Hiding. Always hiding. Hiding from herself—hiding from what she really wanted—hiding from what she was terrified to have.

The minutes were ticking by and Callie realized the darkness was slowly lightening. Dawn would be coming soon and, with it, daylight.

Callie forced herself to contemplate her real dilemma. If she and Brandon existed in daylight – if they existed in real life – she would have to face the fact that one day it might end. That he might leave her. That he might break her heart. She wouldn't be in control of it anymore.

If she ran away with Brandon, their relationship would become unequivocally real.

* * *

They drove.

They drove into the sunrise, along empty streets.

Brandon's car was too old to have GPS and they'd both left their phones at the house. So there was no cheery mechanical voice to guide them; no squiggles on a screen to show them where to go. They were map-less. Rudderless. There was no plan except to drive.

So they drove.

"Second thoughts?" Brandon asked.

Fear still churned in Callie's stomach, but she managed a wry smile.

"Second thoughts," she said. "Third thoughts. Fourth thoughts. But if you turn the car around, I'll kill you."

A smile flooded across Brandon's face, and Callie couldn't help thinking that if she saw that smile every day, maybe she didn't need anything else.

As side streets gave way to highways and the pre-rush-hour traffic swept them up, they passed signs for places she'd never visited, never even dreamed of. Each one was now a possibility. The world unfurled before them, vast and terrifying and exciting.

_Los Angeles_  
Phoenix  
Las Vegas

"You know, my grandma and grandpa got married in Vegas," Brandon said, over the noise of the freeway. "Eloped. They only knew each other five months. Admittedly, they got divorced a few years later…"

"So that worked out really well for them," Callie said and Brandon laughed.

Callie closed her eyes against the morning sun that slanted in through the windshield. The stress of the last few hours was finally ebbing away, leaving her exhausted. She tucked her legs up under her, curling up against the seat. She laid her cheek against the worn leather.

"I'd tell you I'll wake you up where we get there," Brandon said, "but I have no idea where we're going."

"No, I should stay awake," Callie mumbled, though she couldn't force herself to open her eyes. "Can't leave you to drive on your own."

"I'm not on my own," Brandon said. "You're here with me."

Callie smiled, opening her eyes to slits. She reached out to Brandon, her hand covering his where it lay on the steering wheel. She squeezed his hand, savoring the warmth, the connection. Then she drew her hand away and closed her eyes again, giving in to the pull of sleep.

* * *

At a gas station somewhere on the road to nowhere, Brandon woke Callie up.

Amid the parking lot exhaust fumes, the two of them sat on the hood of Brandon's car and ate a gas station brunch of dusty baked goods. The blueberry bagels were stale, but Callie felt like she'd never tasted anything better. As she swallowed her last bite, she looked over at Brandon.

"You need to get some sleep," she said.

She reached over and gently took his face in her hand. She rubbed her thumb lightly across his cheekbone, just below the dark shadows that collected under his eyes.

"I feel like I could keep driving all day," he said, twisting his head to kiss the joint of her thumb.

"…You definitely need to get some sleep," she said.

"Callie… you make me feel like I could run forever and never crash. It's the craziest feeling. Like I could run a marathon, climb a mountain—" (Brandon laughed softly and Callie felt the reverberation run through her hand.) "I mean, obviously I can't do either of those things. But you make me feel like it's possible."

"I make you feel crazy," she said.

"Yeah. But in a good way. You really… changed my life."

"Wrecked your life, you mean."

A familiar sensation of guilt coiled in the pit of her stomach. She pulled her hand away from his face, letting it fall onto the hood of the car. Looking for something to occupy her hands, she reached for the bag of bagels, yanking off its twist tie.

"No, Callie, listen…" Brandon said intently. "Before you showed up, my life was all straight lines. Like… do well in school, get a piano scholarship, get a nice girlfriend, go to college. You know I never actually stopped to think about whether I was happy? I had it all planned out and none of it ever really made me happy. They were just checks in boxes. And I figured one day if I made enough checks, it would all click.

"Then I met you. And it clicked. Even though you were supposed to be my sister. Even though you weren't in the plan. Even though…"

Brandon trailed off. He leaned forward, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"Maybe I do need to get some sleep," he said.

She almost let the moment go. She almost bit her lip and said nothing. It was _Brandon_ who made these big statements about their once-in-a-lifetime love. It was he who was able to articulate his feelings; analyze them with such precision and put it all into words. She had none of the same talent. But, for the first time, she wanted to try.

Callie fidgeted with the white twist tie from the bag of bagels. She twisted it around her little finger and then smoothed it out again, before repeating the process over again. _Twist. Smooth. Twist. Smooth._ Then, finally, she began to speak.

"I had a picture in my head of my life, too," she said quietly. "It was pretty simple. No college. No scholarships. Just me and Jude. A quiet life." She paused, steadying her breath to keep from stumbling over her words. "Then there was you. And quiet didn't seem so satisfying anymore.

"I have to figure love always does that," she continued. "Real love. It comes into your life and screws up your plans. And you let it, because the alternative is losing—losing—"

_You_.

Callie could only mouth the word before Brandon was kissing her. Kissing her like their lives depended on it.

"I love you," he murmured between kisses, "I love you, I love you, I love you…"

"I love you, too," Callie said, feeling her heart swell, burst right out of her chest.

Brandon drew away, looking at her intently.

"I think it's time to stop running away," he said. "We need to run toward something."

"…What does that mean?"

She couldn't help but be unnerved by the intensity in his voice, the over-bright, over-tired look in his eyes. Absently, she continued to fidget with the twist tie in her hands. _Twist. Smooth. Twist. Smooth._

"What you said earlier, about Stef and Lena not being your real family. Well, they could be. They should be."

"Brandon—"

"No, hear me out. I want you to be my family. My real family." He took a deep breath. "So let's get married."

When Brandon said the words, Callie stopped. She stopped fidgeting. She might have even stopped breathing.

Brandon reached for the twist tie in her hands, which now lay slack in her grasp. He wrapped the piece of plastic-and-metal around her ring finger and said again:

"Let's get married."

"We can't get… married," Callie said haltingly.

If the twist tie had turned to solid gold on her finger, she couldn't have felt its presence more acutely.

"We can," he said.

If she just stalled on the logistics of it, she wouldn't have to respond to the proposal.

"You need, like, permission from a parent," she said.

At one of her previous placements, her 17-year-old foster sister had run away to marry her boyfriend and returned sheepishly a few hours later, still unwed, wheedling for a signature like a kid with a permission slip. _Idiot_, Callie had thought at the time.

"One thing I'm certain of is that we both have fake IDs," Brandon said archly.

"The police took them."

"They never ran the paperwork. I got everything back after they let me go. I don't think they exactly _meant_ to give me back the IDs, but they were right there in the envelope…"

"It's… semantics, Brandon! We're not getting married."

"Don't you want to?" he asked imploringly.

The question stopped her short. Didn't she want to? In her heart, didn't she want to?

She looked up at his eager face. It was obvious that he felt that he'd found a neat solution that erased all of their problems. He'd found the loophole. She could be Callie Foster, after all. Beloved daughter-in-law. A part of the family, with a piece of paper to prove it.

But it wasn't such a neat solution. It didn't erase their problems. It didn't erase her fears. And daughter-in-law wasn't the same as daughter. It would mean giving up a part of herself; sacrificing the dream of a family because she wanted him more.

Getting married would mean choosing him – unequivocally. It would bring their relationship out into the light, once and for all. It would mean trusting his promise that he'd love her forever. No more running. No more hiding.

"We're two hours from Vegas," he said. "We have a full tank of gas. Let's just do it."

When she still didn't reply, he went on:

"What's the plan otherwise? Running away didn't work out for you before. I don't see how it works now. I left the house with $50, which is pretty much gone since I filled up with gas and bought overpriced bagels that taste like cardboard."

He gave a wincing smile and continued:

"It was fun to pretend we could really just drive forever. But we have to go home at some point. This way, when we go home, we're married."

She couldn't help but feel betrayed that Brandon had only been playing along with her plan to run away. He'd intended to return all the time, even as she'd begun to believe that maybe they were starting a new life together. Yet Brandon had been planning something a lot bigger than driving till they ran out of road.

"Stef and Lena would… figure out a way get it annulled," she said. "Jude would hate me because I didn't invite him. Mariana would think I did it to spite her or something… Jesus would just laugh. He'd think it's ridiculous. Because it _is_ ridiculous. We're sixteen. We can't get married."

"Fine," he relented, "I see your point."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he resumed speaking.

"So… we wait," he said. "We get married when we're 21, 22. We go to separate boarding schools. We do what we're supposed to. We stay apart. We go to college. We become upstanding citizens. Then we get married."

He reached for her hand, his fingers brushing her twist-tie ring.

"I don't mind waiting," he said. "I'll still want to marry you when we're 21. Or when we're 81, for that matter."

"I don't…" she began and the words felt dry against her tongue.

Brandon's grasp on her hand slackened.

"I don't want to wait," she managed at last. "I want to marry you. Today."

* * *

If the minister was surprised by their age, their dubious Hawaii-issued IDs or the fact that their wedding ring was a twist-tie from a bag of bagels, she didn't show it.

Callie stood in the cheesy Vegas chapel, dressed in jeans and Brandon's t-shirt, feeling foolish. Then Brandon smiled at her and she realized she felt foolish and happy. If she could just see that smile every day for the rest of her life, maybe she didn't need anything else.

As they were leaving the chapel – husband and wife, hands gripped tight – the minister offered them the guestbook. Its pages were packed with messages: some joyful, some irreverent, some drunken; graffiti scrawls lodged beside messages rendered in neat cursive.

Callie watched as Brandon paused to write a message of his own—

_The marriage of Callie Foster, who stared at floorboards, to Brandon Foster, who loved her._


End file.
